


The little secret

by Serena90



Series: The omega of Dreadford [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Bloodplay, Castration, Cruelty, M/M, Mpreg, Mutilation, Rape, Scars, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 09:50:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serena90/pseuds/Serena90
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite the torture at Ramsay Bolton's hands, Theon keeps a little secret. Yet, after being aroused by the two prostitutes and completely naked under Ramsay when he intends to castrate him... his little secret is no longer a secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The little secret

**Author's Note:**

> When I saw the episode of Ramsay castrating Theon, this other possibility wouldn't leave my mind.

Theon whimpered and twisted in his captors’ hold, trying to escape Lord Ramsay Bolton’s hands, which were untying his breaches. He was in pain and on fire. His mangled little finger wasn’t what hurt the most, though. It was the cramps but Theon’s addled mind didn’t put it together.

The Bastard of Dreadfort tightened his hands on the dagger as he surveyed the beautiful body of his prisoner. The cock was still hard, despite his obvious intend to castrate the son of Balon Greyjoy, the boy remained hard. A twisted smile cracked his lips as he inhaled deeply the musky scent of the noble lord.

“Well, well, well… it seems like you have kept a little secret, haven’t you, pet?” said his captor with dark amusement tinting his voice.

The captive trembled in his hands, like a frightened lamb. The affectionate nickname scared him, as did the fact that his torturer had stopped. He knew by now, better than to expect mercy. Theon cracked his blue eyes opened, having been so afraid he had shut them tightly.

Ramsay’s face was brightened with delight, but it wasn’t the innocent and boyish delight his torturer had displayed when they were travelling through the woods. There was a clear madness in his pale blue eyes and in the possessive twist of his hands on Theon’s body.

“My lord…?”, he inquired reverently.

Ramsay was the one who decided when he would eat or drink, when he would be tortured, what would be done to him… Theon had long accepted that Ramsay was the master of his life. He still longed for rescue, but he knew better, the hope had been beaten out of him.

The dark haired lord smirked and looked at the two sluts and the two guards “Leave”, he commanded sharply.

The outsiders didn’t need more prompts and left quickly, afraid to incur their lord’s wrath. Then the madman tossed the dagger aside carelessly. Theon knew better than to think Ramsay vulnerable without an arm, though. He was a strong young man with dark tendencies and pleasures while he was an underfed damaged prisoner. So he didn’t even attempt to throw off the dark haired man who loomed over him.

“Such a rare prize, you surprise me, pet… I thought I knew all about you, your daddy didn’t love, the Starks didn’t appreciate you, you needed to let everyone know you were strong”, he started, mocking his problems with a babyish voice, but there was wonder in his following words, “And yet, under my attentions, you have kept such a secret”

Theon felt a sliver of pleasure at the thought of having pleased his Lord by not being boring. Then, with mounting horror he realised what was the only secret he had been able to keep. And it was obvious now, his cock hard and his arse twitching and wet, waiting to be filled. He wished Ramsay was a normal man and he could predict his reactions, but Ramsay was no ordinary man.

A harsh hand stroked his side, uncaring of his wounds, as Ramsay claimed his lips passionately. The Heir of the House of Bolton didn’t kiss; he conquered with the same brutality and ruthlessness he tortured. Theon surrendered to his Lord, opening his mouth to allow entrance and spreading his long legs invitingly, arching against the hard body on him.

“My Lord, please, my Lord…” whispered repeatedly in a broken voice Theon.

Ramsay took what he wanted greedily and selfishly from the body bellow him. He bit his claim and drew fine lines of blood on his prisoner’s body, drawing blood and marking him as his. He penetrated with ease and without preparation; bucking wildly into the tight and warm hole, without any concern for the man bellow him.

In heat, the ironborn didn’t need more stimulation than the big cock ploughing his insides. He came quickly and numerous times, his twitching channel pleasing his Lord. The pheromones he produced encouraged his Lord to fuck him on the cold stones of the dungeon until they both fell asleep.

Theon awoke to his Lord fucking him anew, his body practically melting under his captor’s attentions. The heat clouded his mind, but even in his befuddled state, he recognized Ramsay as his master. He was his to take and fuck, his to fill with his babies.

After the Lord of Dreadfort had cummed deep inside him again, he started dressing, yet leaving his cock out. Ramsay picked the young ironborn as though he was a doll and penetrated him again. Theon furrowed further into the warmth of his master, whimpering and lightly squirming in his arms as he felt with every step the cock inside him shift.

The Bastard of Bolton brought him into his own chambers to continue fucking until the end of the Bearer’s heat.

 

At the dawn of the fourth day, Theon’s heat was weak and remitting. He remained still next to his captor and torturer, but also his lord and lover. His mind was never more terrified of his Lord’s reaction but his bearer nature had settled Ramsay even more solidly his Lord in his mind.

His Lord surprised him.

Ramsay kissed him deeply and passionately and bit his neck harshly. Then, he ordered a bath of warm water. Once the maids were done preparing it, he gently and possessively urged Theon inside the bath with him. He made his captive settle against his body, not allowing him to clean himself.

Theon closed his blue eyes in pleasure at the hands gently cleaning his curls, he could feel his Lord’s intensity upon him but it didn’t seem malicious. He hoped it wasn’t another trick of his Lord’s, but he was completely his Lord’s, his to fuck, his to hurt and his to breed.

Ramsay caressed then his still healing body, resting a possessive hand on his abdomen. It was a well-known fact that an omega in heat would be with child at the end of it. Of that, there was no doubt.

“My sweet pet, you can be proud, you have my heir inside you, a true Bolton, with the blood of the first men”, he whispered into his ear softly as he washed his bearer.

“Thank you for this honour, my Lord, nothing makes me happier”, answered timidly Theon.

Lord Ramsay smirked; an omega during heat and after it was particularly vulnerable to manipulation. The torture had broken Theon in, but it was his own nature what had doomed him, what had made him Ramsay’s without question or doubt.

He caressed his sides again, Theon was in a state of mind that was almost childish, he was very suggestible at this moment and he intended to take advantage of that by showering him with kindness. Even when he painted his bearer’s body with blood, the depths of Theon mind would still regard him as his Lord who looked after him kindly and gently.

Theon was being reborn, not as a servant as he had planned, but as his beautiful and obeisant consort. He had torn him apart and was putting all the pieces of the young ironborn the way he wanted. He kissed the long neck, gazing at the white pale skin; he would paint his claim on his omega.

 

The Heir of the Iron Islands awoke with a start. Theon convulsed on the bed, curling into a small ball, sobbing out in pain. He could feel liquid travelling down his pale legs and he knew that it was blood. His Lord had woken and was pulling the long, thick curtains of the bed open to let the light of the fire come through.

“I’m so sorry, my Lord, please, I’m so sorry”, sobbed the young omega, his mind on the unborn child.

Lord Ramsay’s face was cold and indifferent as he studied the young man in front of him, but his metal eyes glinted with fury and arousal. He wasn’t pleased his Heir would never be born, although he supposed if he wasn’t born, he couldn’t be his heir. The screams and whimpers of the ironborn were rather stimulating and he wanted nothing more than to fuck the bearer to death, while he convulsed in pain around his cock.

But an omega was too valuable for that. An omega could give him strong powerful sons, stronger than anyone else’s. Only an omega was fit to carry the next generation of Bolton blood. He sighed and called for a Maester, he knew some omegas bled to death in miscarriages. Of course, if Theon couldn’t give him any children, then he wouldn’t be valuable anymore.

The Maester entered the room and quickly went to Theon’s side, taking a small chest of herbs with him. He barked at a servant girl to provide him with towels and hot water. The process was pretty simple; he fed the bearer potion after potion until the bleeding died out and then, he put him to sleep.

Lord Ramsay, who had been looking from the comfy armchair with an impassive expression, rose. The Maester had healed enough of his Lord’s victims to be fearful and respectful. He was trembling lightly and looking at the floor as he answered the Bastard of Bolton.

“Will he be able to carry a healthy child to term?”, Ramsay inquired harshly.

The old man wringed his hands nervously, “He’s undernourished and weak, but he’s young, if he’s fed and not harmed, after his next heat, he should be able to carry to term”

The Bastard of Dreadfort twitched, he didn’t know Theon’s cycle but he knew his next heat after a miscarriage wouldn’t be in at least four months. It’d be four months with this beauty besides him and unable to enjoy him to the fullest, unable to hear his sweet cries for mercy.

Ramsay looked at the beautiful creature sleeping in his bed, all that soft pale skin, “Do superficial wounds count?”


End file.
